


And my time was running wild

by lilith_morgana



Series: Notebook of the damned [2]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Gen, Lucifer Bingo 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 12:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19393750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_morgana/pseuds/lilith_morgana
Summary: Mazikeen is the first living creature who sees his face after the fall.





	And my time was running wild

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Lucifer Bingo Prompt "Mazikeen".

  
  
  
Mazikeen is the first living creature who sees his face after the fall.  
  
Blades in hand she kneels by the charred, hunched creature that has been cast out of the skies to serve out his punishment from God as the ruler of Hell. They say he rebelled against the very Creation; they say he drove his brothers and sisters to war against each other and destroyed all peace in Heaven, that he bloodied and stained the Silver City; they say he used to be the proudest, most beautiful of all angels and therefore also the most dangerous.  
  
The thought is a jolt of excitement through her body. Here he is. _Finally_ .  
  
“My lord,” she says. ”I await your orders.”  
  
The angel doesn’t move so she does in his place, inching closer on the ground. He certainly is a sight, she will give them that. Even now. His wings are injured, the feathers smell of fire and his skin of oil and ashes; when she tilts her head and looks at his chest she notices burn marks, deep cuts along his sides, patches of skin that look like they’ve been clawed at, torn apart. When he eventually tilts his head up towards her, what she sees is nothing but burnt, red flesh and a pair of dark eyes widened in disbelief. Slowly, hazily, he raises one of his hands to his face but recoils again the second it touches the skin.

Neither of them speak; she tries to be submissive before the might of the king, he seems to be recovering from what she imagines is quite the journey. It takes her a long while to realise that he's actually crying, that the tremors in his body are dry, furious sobs. 

She turns away at his display of weakness; she doesn't leave his side. She brings water for his wings, ointments for the burns and something to drink when he asks for it. 

“What is your name, demon?” he asks much later.  
  
“Mazikeen.”  
  
He nods, staring out over the vast realm that is now his to rule. “Thank you, Mazikeen.”

  


  
*  
  
  
  
They have a _good life_ , as the humans would say.  
  
Hell is far from the simple and one-dimensional place their tenants believe and Mazikeen loves it, every part of it. The scents, the sights, the way it is an integral part of her very being. Brimstone in her blood, sulphur in her heart, the screaming agony of sinners dancing under her skin. It’s a beat in between breaths, an instinct in her gut, a pulse that runs through their very existence and keeps them going, keeps them laughing, keeps them grounded. Hell is balance and justice, a haven outside time where the scales are evened and the mightiest fall. There is _purpose_ down here, more so even than up in the Silver City.  
  
“That’s because you’re a bloody lillim,” her king spits. “You literally _have_ no other purpose.”  
  
“Yes, well, funny how that works. My _lord_ .”  
  
“Get out of my sight,” he commands, voice thick and unsteady.  
  
The Lord of Hell who could order anything of her, take everything from her. She finds it almost infuriating that he doesn’t.  
  
The Lord of Hell who hates his reign so much that he rains hellfire over their heads, drives molten lava from the ground and wrecked cries from the select few cases where he wants to participate. Mazikeen loves nothing more than to watch him come up with torture. In her epic lifetime, she knows, she will never behold anything quite as magnificent as that, the fallen angel with his wrath, spinning elaborate twists to every move, perfecting the loops of agony until they reach their breaking point. He is brilliant and cruel then, sharp like a hell-forged blade against their insecurities and grief and remorseless in the face of their regret. _You did this to yourself. You’re a monster, you deserve it._  
  
The Lord of Hell who leaves sometimes, vacates into places inside himself where nobody can reach him. Hell grows ice cold in his absence, everything freezes in massive blocks of despair, even the loops of torment come to a halt and he merely stares at her when she stands before him with matters that require his attention.  
  
“Do whatever you want, demon,” he says, tonelessly.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  


Lucifer runs away as often as he can. _More_ often than he can.  
  
She’ll catch him on his way out sometimes, just as he slips through one of his loopholes and leaves her with the distant sound of wings; other times he saunters back in through the gates as if nothing’s amiss and nothing’s been lacking down there. There’s a long trace of humanity where he goes and it lasts longer and longer each time. Maze notices it among the tenants too, notices how their eyes widen and their mouths open as they smell _Earth_ on their king. The despair that rattles inside their wretched souls at the familiarity of it all, their faint hopes that she gets to crush by reminding them that nope, no path back to the surface for them, no second chances in Hell. It’s just the reek of it that they’ll be subjected to, again and again. The agony that drowns the underworld once this is made clear is such a powerful thrill that she nearly loses her mind in it.  
  
He needs to know his subjects, he claims. The ruler of Hell can’t be a stranger to humanity.  
  
For decades, she believes him.   
  
  
*  
  
  
He returns a little different each time.  
  
_Defeated_ , his hair dishevelled and his face marred with bruises and cuts. Those times she knows his brother has been forced to fight him, wrestle him back to his throne.  
  
_Smiling_ , his shoulders relaxed and his face an easy smile that lingers even in Hell.  
  
_Arrogant_ , his angel face cut out in marble, the sneer on his lips impossible to get rid of for half an eternity.  
  
_Broken_ , his proud posture smaller somehow, his voice hollow as he asks for more of the disgusting swill they serve down here. She remains in his chambers then, listens to him while he talks about what they do up there, how they hurt and hunt each other. _They deserve this, Maze. They bloody well do._  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
She hates the angelic side of him.  
  
At first it merely confuses her and confusion is a notion that fills her with rage, so she fights it even if it means fighting him.  
  
Whenever he disappears behind that veil of sadness or drives his hands into the rocks in desperation after something particularly unpleasant they do, she raises her voice. Whenever he refuses to participate, when he tosses her aside like a mindless weapon at her suggestions, she clenches her fists and hits back. Her oaths, sworn to the angels that rule over Heaven, to Lucifer himself, demand that she maintain the flames of hell inside his soul, that she never quells the punishment that the celestial balance requires. She keeps her promises but she doesn’t understand. How can a lord of Hell find the majesty of their realm so disgusting? How can the angel of destruction turn his back on a good spot of torture? 

Eventually, when it dawns on her that his own punishment is the fact that he's still the same as he ever was - an angel's soul with an angel’s mind in a demonic kingdom - she feels for the first time in her existence that there are infinitely more cruel creatures out there than her.

They still fight; they still have their missions but Maze remains afterwards, tends to his wounds and shares his bed, carries out what must be done. 

She hates the angelic side of him; it causes him endless, _frantic_ pain.

*

  
  
There is a violent uprising when the king first refuses demons to slip out through the gates. Even the highest of them, the enforcers and the fallen celestial beings who were cast out of Heaven when Lucifer himself was are denied every privilege they once had.  
  
“You will not walk the Earth,” he commands them from his high throne. His voice echoes over the fields of ashes and Mazikeen stands by his side. He has his reasons; she doesn’t understand them. “You are demons, you belong in Hell.”  
  
The struggle is persistent, Hell has strong warriors and quenchless passions but the king is stronger, his fury greater; Maze orders cleaning of demon blood from the streets for a long time even as the fighting subsides. Everywhere the ground whispers of battle and destruction, of crushed rebellion.   
  
Inside the castle, the king is silent for so long that Mazikeen forgets what his voice sounds like. 

  
  
  
*  
  
  
He is, almost despite himself, a decent king.  
  
She is, almost despite herself, a loyal servant.  
  
Often she thinks that she would have chosen him herself, had he not been her master.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  


The first time he summons her to Earth she screams in pain from the journey. Gasps as the torment finally subsides while she’s kneeling on the marble floor of the strange place her king has chosen for his visit. 

"Why do you look like you have encountered the Inquisition?" He stares at her from a bed-like sofa where he is spread out, sipping wine from a large goblet. “Did they burn you at the stake, or what?”*  
  
"Hellfire, my lord. The gates are not designed to let me out."

He regards her in silence, his eyes look like deep, dark waters where a wavelet suddenly passes. 

"I didn't realise, Mazikeen."

He takes her back to Hell in his arms and she watches the breathtaking sights of the molten fields approach with the sound of wings in her ears.  
  
  


*

  
  


The centuries wrap themselves around her, around him. They are at some point and in certain lights coming at it from precise angles, almost friends.  
  
Eventually she gets used to his Earth visits, used to accompany him. She isn't as fond of the places or the people but her king - Lucifer, he wants her to call him Lucifer and she grows accustomed to that, too - knows how to have a good orgy and an extravagant party, so there's that. They revel in human customs, human traditions, human extravaganza - her favorite bits about Earth are the drugs and the madness with which humans party. All adrenaline rush, no sight of consequences until they crash the following day. The best of them get up then and simply start over. She finds it hilarious. Lucifer, judging by the look in his eyes, the expression on his face, seems to find it _endearing_ .  
  
In retrospect, she shouldn't have been so surprised when one of their stays suddenly becomes permanent. 

  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
Earth is bright and loud and smells of soap and pollution.  
  
“This is brilliant,” Lucifer says, looking out over the water, the million lights that rise all around them.  
  
“Is it?” Maze counters but there is no discussion to be had. She can see the frantic triumph in his entire body, the restless energy that suggest he’s made a deal that he considers a victory over someone or something. Over everything.   
  
Then there’s a small shift in his posture as he turns to look at her. He’s not her king now; she is no longer certain when he finally stopped. Up here the layers are different, she wonders how they will blend in, what it will demand in terms of sacrifices.  
  
She already wants to go home.  
  
“I need your help, Maze.”

  


  
*  
  


  
Mazikeen is the first living creature who sees his face after the fall.  
  
On the vast beach of this human city, she kneels behind him, arms shaking after the effort and with blood running down between her fingers, reaching under her nails, dripping on the sand beneath them. Angel blood, soiling this disgusting and doomed place. It feels like a waste; humans don’t deserve the divine, even a demon knows that.   
  
He had been utterly still when she drove her blade into his back, not even a muffled sound of pain had emerged from his lips and she is, even after all this time in his service, amazed the learn the depths of his determination.  
  
His face turned upwards in a gleeful sneer, his hands curled into fists at his sides, his shoulders stiff and broad, _immovable_ as she cuts deeper, severing him from his father, from himself. From her.  
  
Tears well up in her eyes at the sight of the nasty wounds on his smooth skin, at the sensation of his flesh transforming under her hands. At the memory of him, fallen on the ground. The way he had disdained her, ignored her, then slowly begun to understand her and through her, begun to form an understanding of Hell.  
  
But not enough, she thinks and winces at the sound of the first wing landing on the ground with a soft thud where the beach welcomes it, its sand rising and falling.  
  
He has never understood Hell _enough_ . Never understood why it is her home, why it is beautiful and worthy of a just king, why its demons are there and why it’s not their fault that he is, too. To him it has merely been a prison, the origin of his chains, the faceless owner of his leash. She wonders if he considers himself free now or if it's like any other illusion he nurses for a short while before tossing it aside. Before tossing _everything_ aside, the way he does now; the angry tears return and she swallows, bites them back and keeps working her blade.   
  
“Thank you, Mazikeen,” he says through gritted teeth when she’s done and they’re both sitting among feathers and blood, breathing shallowly.  
  
She doesn’t say anything in return, merely nods and watches him as he walks out into the ocean to wash away the blood from his back.   
  
In her hands she cradles a white, unstained feather.  
  
  
  



End file.
